In the process of getting ready to move, I came across this account of an experience I had in in 2003.  It just happened to fit the writing prompt for a contest I was interested in entering.  The prompt was

#47: Second Person

The Siren of Royal Street

One of the most overwhelming aspects of the city of New Orleans is its haunted atmosphere. One must only turn around in the French Quarter to see history upon history in the architecture and tradition that drapes itself around you.

Cemeteries, Ghosts, Voodoo, and Vampires are elements of this city, whether by truth or tourist-attraction. In either case, you cannot help but to glance this way and that, wondering if the nun on the corner is a presence of this time or a bygone day.

You are walking down a crowded, narrow street on a muggy Friday night in August, around midnight. All your senses are on duty. You feel your clothes clinging to you in the sweltering humidity, the taste of your last daiquiri lingering in your mouth. The smell of stale alcohol and cigarette smoke mixed with various perfumes fill your head. In the distance, you hear the sounds of Bourbon Street, heavy dance beats mixed with lively jazz as they drift together over a row or two of dilapidated apartment buildings.

On either side of the street, you see antiques beyond your wildest imagination. Window after window is lavishly decorated with Napoleonic furniture and art. Dishes that have seen more dinners than you have seen days are stacked high on shelves on either side.

There is a sense of “other world” here, where history and culture come together to cradle you in charms that capture your heart and cause you to covet things you might never have deemed worthy before.

A breeze drifts through from the gulf, cooling the cotton, wet with perspiration, that clings to your body. You shiver, but you are not certain if it was caused by the breeze or the voice that wafted in on it. . .

It’s a song? What song? You can’t tell, but that voice . . . It echoes softly from far up the street. You look to see if anyone else is reacting to it. Again, you cannot tell. You strain to hear more, but it is difficult to hear much over the din of bourbon street. Where is she? Is she gone?

You walk further, trying to hear more, yet trying not to be conspicuous. Did anyone else hear her?

You continue to glance into windows, but the art and draperies have lost their luster compared to that voice. Is that it, again? Yes, it is getting clearer. She is singing . . . You know this song . . . what is it?

Your mind begins to form a vision of her. She is a wisp of a woman, pale and thin, dressed in an antique white Victorian night gown. Her hair is long and flowing, soft brown, like a doe. The breeze causes it to flutter before her, in chorus with her flowing gown.

Her face is a shadow you cannot clearly make out, and you know that if you did, you’d be lost in it forever. She must be on a balcony overhead.

Yes, that is the only thing that makes sense. She is on a balcony, waiting for her love to come back from the war to her. She searches the crowd for his face, hoping her voice will lead him home. That is why her voice sounds so mournful.

You are summoned closer by the voice. ” . . . till my trophies at last I lay down.”

“Old Rugged Cross!” You do know this song. You remember it from attending church with your grandmother so many years ago.

Your vision changes. She is not pining for a lost love. She is dressed in a white Salvation Army uniform with a blue hat. Her dark hair is pulled into a tight bun. She looks straight ahead; her voice is her duty. She sings to bring food to the hungry, medicine to the sick, aid to the wounded. You hope to find her, to contribute your two bits to her cause.

“Just don’t stop singing until I find you!” you pray.

The voice gets clearer. Your heart swells with the sound of it and you fear it might break when you see her. You see a hint of a figure in a doorway. Is that her? You hear that voice echoing from behind the windows that reach out to cloak her.

But you know that is her and you walk faster. You must see her before she stops singing and vanishes. People keep walking in front of you. Don’t they hear her? You see the underside of an umbrella that has been turned over on the ground to catch donations. You look down, for fear that the sight of her will be too much. You see the tips of her shoes, peeking from underneath a brown cotton dress with tiny white flowers on it. This is the voice. You raise your eyes slowly to her face.

Your eyes fill up with the sight of her: a sturdy woman of an experienced age, her round form swaying to the sound of her own voice. Her hair is brown and frames her face. Her eyes are bright and blue and when you put your eight bits in her umbrella, they crinkle with the smile she cannot hold back.

She stops singing momentarily to thank you, and tears fill your eyes. Your yearning for her voice is actually causing you physical pain. You know this is a moment you will always treasure. “Just say it,” you think. You knew you’d regret it if you didn’t.

“I followed your voice,” you tell her, hoping you do not weep. “Please don’t stop for me.”

She blushes and nods as she picks up that song where she left it. You look down again, walking quickly away, before she sees you cry and the moment loses its magic.

You walk slowly back to your hotel; your whole being clinging to that voice as long as possible. Tomorrow you must return home to real life and responsibilities: to bills and housework, meetings and proposals, and all the mundane things that sap the life from your soul. Tonight, you are enveloped in magic and want the moment to last forever.